


midnight souls still remain

by mywaterloo



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bodhi Rook Lives, Post-Rogue One, Slice of Life, but everyone else is dead, or maybe not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-02 20:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywaterloo/pseuds/mywaterloo
Summary: Somehow, the stars decided that Bodhi Rook wouldn't die on Scarif. But there are many broken pieces, and they make a cold coat to wear.





	midnight souls still remain

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know what im doing  
> im sorry if some things dont add up, although i love sw im not like super familiar with the universe but im trying huh

It could be chaos, but not quite ; more like a vibrant finale. Darkness has shut the whole galaxy down, in the manner of a black curtain marking the end of a Greek tragedy and hiding its closure to the eyes of the audience — the oh-so sensitive wish to leave the dead and the mourning unseen, unheard.

The only distinct thing that pierces the thorough veil is a cry. An epicene, ageless cry. It surprises him. It shouldn't. After all, death is blind and spares no one.

The comedians disappear one after another by each excruciating second without any bow as life escapes in small gasps that cannot be witnessed anymore. Everything fades ; a bathos in silence.

Mute applause. End of the act. The candles are all blown out now, and everyone is gone ; actors as well as spectators.  


A small, tentative hand grasps the helm of the drape.

 

*

 

 

 

He remembers the heat.

He'd just got on the line with a gravelly voice — probably admiral Raddus's, though he was not sure : he was still all new to this kriffing Rebellion, which, if he was being honest, was more anarchic than a school group project. Besides, nothing was absolutely certain these days : foreign lands, other enemies, different allies — and the lines between these last two were blurred.

It was all the more unpredictable when you were on the verge of blowing up (partially due to the tension you'd been putting up with for weeks ; mostly because of the bombs thrown at you by the enemy). Of that he was aware.

Ten days ago, not knowing such a thing as the identity of his interlocutor would have bothered him — an itch he couldn't alleviate no matter how much he would scrape it. He liked being well-informed of everything ; he felt compelled to be. It was as vital for him as breathing, because it was the only way to preserve his sanity. Otherwise, everything felt dangerous, hazy, and the chances of success became thinner and thinner the farther he progressed stumbling, tumbling in the dark.

Yeah, ten days ago, he would have hanged up. Avoided any possible danger even if it had meant scuttling the project. Better safe than sorry, that was his motto.

Yet, at this precise moment, ten days had seemed so far way. This was war, and in order not to die you sometimes had to cut some pieces of your life. He couldn't let these trifling details, even though they seemed crucial to him, interfer with the mission. He was the pilot. He had a message to tell. Thus, despite his concerns, he had given them the instructions to follow to get the Death Star's plans, and they, mysterious but cherished _they_ , had assured him that they would handle it. The rest was left to hope.

He had hanged up and felt content with himself. Proud, even. It was an odd but pleasant feeling ; a tiny trump in his stomach turning into a giant fanfare of banging drums. Finally, there seemed to be an end to what felt like an everlasting predicament. For the first time in a very long time, he was convinced that he had done the right thing. That he could, maybe, just maybe, redeem himself.

Then he saw the stormtrooper launch the grenade.

He watched the cylinder roll in the ship but he made no move. He didn't think he was going to die. He didn't think at all. The explosive drifted towards him, the bomb triggered off and he blinked, _bang_ , just like that, body curling up reflexively, hopes turning into dust, and the last thing he felt was a rush of warmth envelopping his corpse.

But now the heat is gone.

Instead, there's only cold. It's not the biting kind of the icy mountains of Hoth ; it's clinical. Aseptic. If he focuses on his surroundings, he can hear something in the distance. Focus. Somebody is moving next to him. Metallic sounds — a faint rattle, a jolt. From his experience, it only means one thing : captivity.

He wakes up.

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is a droid hovering him.

"Bodhi Rook," the droid calls with its robotic voice.

Bodhi tries to move. He can't. His arms are cleaved by long tubes. He blinks. Right. A bed. Perfusions.

"You were put into a bacta tank. Your burns were pretty severe so you had to be plunged in the substance for a week."

The droid talks to him but he can't make sense of his words. He takes a quick look at his skin — can't risk to linger his gaze longer. His rather good shape stumps him : except for a few saillies following the lines of his forearms and operating as the only witnesses of the explosion, there are no signs of injury.

Not dead, then.

"What about the others ?" he manages to say, the words feeling like papier mâché on his anesthetized tongue.

The droid shifts hesitantly, as if unsure of how to respond. Bodhi could swear that it would even blink in confusion if it possessed eyelids.

"I'm sorry," is all the droid can come up with.

And he knows that robots don't have feelings, can't comprehend them, but it truly sounds like this one does.

It terrifies him.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

The first days are harsh. Or so he'd like to think. It would prove that he can feel something. Anything. But his body is so numb he can't decipher pain or comfort. He has no other choice but to wait. For what, he doesn't know.

The hours melt away in the dense fog of the medicine and the warmness of the cotton sheets. The droids visits him regularly, testing, blood pressure, temperature, cognitive faculties.

At one point, a flood of sensations eventually swamps him ; a punch, hard enough to hurt him but which lacks the sharp fatality of a coup de grace. His head is suddenly heavy, eyes turbid, cheeks flushed, bones shattered. There's also a whistling going from one ear to the other, the hollow of the wind between the branches of the trees. It's somehow worse than the time the bor gullet tortured him, because he cannot scream. Screaming evacuates part of the ache. Now, it's all burried inside him. Tearing him apart. Perhaps he is becoming crazy.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

He wakes up because of choking sounds. His own, he realizes.

By the window, a saffron moon announces that the night has come. Night is all but protective, it would rather let him die of malaise through the panes. Stars give him headaches, they deceive him instead of guiding him, they send him to perish on other planets. And the moon, the kriffing moon, spectator of his vile woes, laughs so much and is hardly startled when he gashes the shadows to carry his friends on his weak shoulders but collapses and folds like a dried twig when he must hold their distraught gaze.

He would have cried if he wasn't so proud. He just wants the whistling to end. He shouts that he has worked for the Empire, he screams that he has killed — dozens, hundreds of innocents, because he wants to die. 

But nobody listens.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

There is another bed in the room.

In the other bed, convalescent follow one another. They all seem to be injured pretty badly, broken ribs, hearing loss, swollen lungs. But they recover. In no time, they are able to stand on their own feet and rejoin the battlefield.

A patient comes, another leaves.

He stays.

He has scars that can't be healed just by bandages and antibiotics.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

On a particularly chilly Centaxday, he decides that it's enough. He can't pinpoint what leads to this decision. Maybe he's just tired of waiting for death to come and has decided to come to her instead.

He reaches for the googles in his hair but doesn't find them.

"I put them on the table."

A girl is standing by his side. Dumbly, he thinks : this is not the droid. The girl smiles as she hands him his googles. Her features are silky but her eyes look like frosted windows that don't reveal much behind the clouded cornea. Or maybe it's his. Her name is written on her blouse. Raene.

"Thank you," he mutters.

When he gets up, the pain worsens. His whole body aches in protest ; muffles a quiet complaint by tugging at the ribs.

Swinging his weight from one exhausted foot to the other, he exits the room. He walks slowly, he crawls a little against the walls ; a little. He can't tell if it's shame that guides his steps or a desire not to disturb the air around him.

In the corridors, nobody laughs and nothing palpitates. It seems like something has vanished : the floor slabs look irate, gruff, and from every stair comes a shade of sadness.

He's just like this place ; deserted.

Wretched _._

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

Once he eventually encounters other souls, people praise him. _Here he is, the man who cheated death_ , he can hear in the stifled whispers behind vigilant hands. There's amazement, obivously, but also defiance. How come he is the only survivor ? Wasn't he part of the Empire ? Can we really trust him ? Although nobody dares to say it out loud, their skepticism cracks their repulsed stares. He supposes it makes sense. He wouldn't trust himself either.

In front of him, they shower him with compliments, great job, you're admirable, go grab a Corellian ale with us sometime. They also give him a room. The quarters he is assigned to are normally reserved for sergeants and people of higher grades, but they say he's a hero, which is according to them pretty much the same. He doesn't find the strength to deny it. Especially if it implies soft pillows, thick blankets and functional heating.

The fact is, he used to live in a tiny earthenware hut that was deficient in the basics of functionality — no air, nowhere to store the food — and hygiene ; blister nags, on the contrary, didn't lack. He had his own room — small, cold — but his parents slept on a sofa in the salon, next to the front door which couldn't be locked and thus let the wind flow inside easily. So yeah, before Scarif, he had never really experienced what it's like to be hot.

He discovers that he has to share the chambre with another man. A soldier. He is older than him, bulkier — broad shoulders and square chin, but his eyes are soft. He introduces himself as Kes.

"I'm Bodhi Rook."

The name sounds estranged to his own ears ;  as if he couldn't associate the letters with his being. This is him, except it isn't. Perhaps Bodhi Rook died on the beach and all that's left is a mobile corpse. He wouldn't mind, to be honest.

"You were a pilot, eh ?" his now roommate asks.

He nods.

"In this case, you should meet my wife. She's a pilot too, knows all kind of things about A-wings and stuff. What type of ship do you fly ?"

"I was just a cargo pilot. Failed the test to get in the starfighter programme."

He winces. It reminds him that he is not capable enough. That _he_ is not enough. But Kes won't have any of it. He clasps his hand on his shoulder.

"Well, I'd say it was for the better," he says cheerfully. "If you had entered the programme, you probably wouldn't have met Galen. Rogue One wouldn't exist if it wasn't for you. Besides, wasn't it a cargo shuttle that led your team to success ?"

It's also what led us to our doom, Bodhi wants to add.

The words die in his throat.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

He's never had a fond memory of the beach. People always talk about it with a big smile plastered on their face, eyes filled with delight and nostalgia, but he's never got the appeal.

The only thing he found relishable about the seaside was Darth Vader's hatred for it. Something about the sand being coarse and rough and irritating and getting everywhere. He can't remember how he learned that. Probably heard it from one of his old teammates. They shared a lot of funny stories among the group to entertain themselves back then.

But then Scarif happened, and a whiny little Darth Vader didn't seem like much fun anymore.

The memory doesn't leave him when he walks to the place where earth and sea meet, and each one of his steps bears the weight of death and crushed skulls. But there's also this _feeling_ — it's weird. Maddening. He marvels at the sliver of the waves against large black bouders, the gradual erosion of the stone ; a foot that encounters gritty pebbles while the other meets a heap of moss.

As he nears the end of land, the burden abates and he begins to understand the charm. It's not just about the velvety sand, still wet from the retreating tide : it's the aroma of the weeds, the sound of cracking shells under the pressure of his boots, the compression of the heavy atmosphere.

It could be a painting ; swirling shapes, lines foggy between sublime and picturesque, intense colours around the angles, ominous clouds curling over the treacherous landscape, a blast of sunlight outshining everything else. (And yet.)

He can't help but think, this is the last thing they saw before they died, this endless, stretching ocean.

The thought crosses his dismal mind, forgetting to look both ways as it transverses it — a crash.

He goes back to his room.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Raene often comes to see how he's doing. She's sweet, and she brings her hand to her mouth when she laughs this tiny, chiming giggle, and she cares for him. He thinks it's a foolish thing to do.

Sometimes, she brings him a plate with leftovers when he didn't make it for lunch. Other times, she takes stock of progress, who did what, the names of new rebels who have commited themselves to the cause. Not that he really pays attention. But it's good, to have someone by his side.

This time, she kisses him : on the forehead, the temple, the crook of his neck. Her short blue hair tickle his chin, and he feels _it_ ; the fissure she widens at the base of his heart, too dry to give her what she desires.

He should touch her. Wants to lose himself ; in her — in gold, or satin, or whatever. The important part was not the means or the place, but his disappearance. _Run with me or drown me, drag me to the bottom of the sea, to the depths of my murky consciousness. But take me somewhere I don't exist._

He should touch her. Show her that he appreciates her gentle caresses, the way she brushes his curls away from his eyes. Show that he too could be a lover. Learn how to offer comfort to those who ache to be soothed. But every time he goes to grasp a parcel of her skin, or makes the mistake of opening his eyes, or inhales through his nose, he's disappointed. Crushingly, incurably disappointed.

He should touch her ; he can't bring himself to.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

In a way, it's all Cassian's fault. Because of his big words and great golden phrases, especially ; "make ten men feel a hundred", and this kind of harangue which he alone knew how to tell. Well, now, it really feels like he's lost a hundred people. He didn't even know them for that long, but it hurts — it fucking hurts. So thanks, Cassian.

There are no words to describe what emptiness is like after that. It's not even emptiness, it's worse : you have to be once fulfilled to feel empty, and he never was. There is nothing inside him ; he aspires to nothing, is imbued with nothing, is satiated by this nothing only. A lonesome heart slowly dissolving. 

Save the rebellion, save the dream ? Bullshit.

There is nothing dreamy around here. Chimeras are made of cosmic dust.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

"I apologize for taking advantage of you," Raene says the next day. "I sense that it made you uncomfortable. I'm sorry. You'll never see me again if you so desire."

The reflection startles him. But Raene strokes his cheek as if he were made of porcelain and could break at any time. He hates it. _Don't leave, not you, not again, everybody leaves, I can't bear the loss anymore, I'll probably crumble down if_ -

"Before that, the tech team has a gift for you."

And he can't say anything, because she has already stepped outside the room, and everything is cold and rough again. He sighs. Judging by the sound of her heels against the wooden floor, tap, tap, her brows knitting, he knows that she has no intention of staying, whatever his decision is. It's okay, he thinks. He has to learn to be strong alone.

She comes back a few moment later. Only this time, she has company.

"It's not the same bodywork, obviously," she says almost miserably. "But they managed to restore his memory."

Her eyes dart to the ground as she pushes the security droid forward. Bodhi can't believe his eyes.

"How ?" he asks, more confused than truly enthralled.

"They keep backups of every droid we use. Their internal computer is directly connected to our servers."

He gets up, too quickly — realizes his mistake when the most racking pangs hit him. He bites back a groan. His cramps are still very vivid.

Ignoring the soreness (and the probably incoming tears, and the slamming door behind his back), he palpates the steel backing of the robot ; no scratch, no crater left by a bolt. All new. He envies him. At least one of them doesn't have the word _survivor_ written all over his body.

He presses a button, and light comes to the droid's eyes.

"Hello, Bodhi Rook," K-2SO says.

And in spite of his bitterness, Bodhi can't suppress the smirk that splits his face when he notes that instead of the Imperial crest which was imprinted on the side of each shoulder, the Alliance Starbird shines brightly.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

He's not a believer of the Force. When people meditate or perform weird rituals in hopes of feeling some kind of energy flowing between all living elements, he glances at  them with a contemptuous silence.

None of this is real. People illusion themselves with lies, because they refuse to confront life as it truly is : grim and cruel. Life makes the youth go to war because of older men, life kills people and when someone is gone, they're gone forever and nothing can reverse that.

He's not a believer, because it doesn't make sense.

But sometimes, he pretends it does.

It's easier.

He imagines each one of the Rogue One members as Force ghosts, hey Jyn, hey Baze, long time no see, is it easier to touch the stars now that you too are celestial bodies, and they would sit with him on the beach, and they would all admire the sun setting into the infinite horizon.

And they would reign in cities that they would have built for themselves up in the sky.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

"There you are."

Bodhi grunts when he sees K-2SO pointing his head at the entry of the cavity. He found the cavern this morning as he wandered in the middle of unwelcoming crags. He thought it was a good spot, sheltered from the less ardent sun which glistens in the less dense sky. And the place was so well hidden that he expected that no one would find him.

Apparently, he was wrong.

"Everybody is celebrating," the droid says. "And they want to decorate you. For distinguished service."

Bodhi snorts. Distinguished, huh ? Like the soil sticking on his boots, the dirt inside his fingernails that he can't clean ? The blood turned brown on the tainted glass of his googles ?

He shrugs.

"I don't know. I feel like a fraud. They think I did it for the Rebellion, but I did it for me. I just couldn't bear the atrocities done in the name of the Empire anymore. I didn't choose to defect — I _had_ to. I deserve no reward."

He's not like the others. Jyn, Cassian, Chirrut, Baze, Arro, Yosh, Eskro, Farsin, Jav, Ruescott, Pao, Serchill, Taidu, Stordan, they all died for something incomplete ; they died fiercely, red flag in their fist. They laughed at despots and compromises. They wanted absolute duty and unconditional right, they wanted the Republic to be more white than black. Unlike him, they knew they would die for their pipe dream and had no hope of victory. That's why a sorrowful pride tensed their bitter lips ; that's why their eyes reverbated the faith and the calm of martyrs when they fell under the bullets. And their eyes closed among divine visions, free of cowardice and betrayal, and they'll never have to see what he sees.

"If it was only hatred that motivated your actions, you could have just fled," K-2SO points out. "You didn't have to risk your life. Twice."

"But I-"

" _I_ was reprogrammed. You were not. You _chose_ this life. And that means something."

"What ?" he bites, gritting his teeth. Because what the hell does he know ? What the fuck does an animated object with circuits know about hurt and virtue and merit ?

He crosses his arms, his way of saying, look, I dare you, throw all your sneering at me, I won't flinch, you can't break something that is already in pieces.

But the droid isn't discouraged by the sudden hostility. On the contrary, he tilts his head in a way that can only be described as affectionate.

"That means you have a good heart, Bodhi Rook, and you should be proud of that."

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

He lets his body float on the surface, appreciating the fluctuation of the current. He had forgotten what it means to truly breathe : the sublime violence of light when it hits the iris, the warmth of the sun ricocheting on his epidermis.

After a while, he swims back to the shore. Lets the droplets stream down his body, lets the sun dry his skin.

"That's one hell of a swimmer."

A boy is watching him from afar, only dipping his toes in the blue sea. He's all smile and sparkling eyes, and Bodhi doesn't know if he's being sarcastic or if he's just genuine like that.

"Thanks ?" he says once they're close enough.

"I envy you," the boy pouts. "I can't swim, just paddle. Never really been outside the desert of Tatooine, so water scares me a little. It's just so foreign to me !"

"Hum, and you are ?"

The boy beams and extends his hand eagerly.

"Luke ! Pleased to meet you !"

Bodhi's eyes open wide as they shake hands. So this is him. Luke Starkiller or whatever his name is. The boy people always talk about in the cantina for an obscure reason — Bodhi doesn't really pay attention to his surroundings these days, but now — _now_ , he understands. Everything about the boy is bright : bright hair, bright eyes, bright smile. No wonder why he attracts so much attention. He looks like he could end the Galactic Civil War just by asking politely.

Bodhi used to be a flashy kid, too — his name means enlightnment, after all. He was known to be the nice boy down the street. Girls found him cute, he made friends easily, and people would say, ah, Bodhi, such a polite lad, always happy, a little ball of sunshine if I may say so myself. Yet, next to this ambulant burst of luminosity, he doubts he has ever been anything but a black hole.

But the other shines so wondrously that he can't even bring himself to hate him. Only resist the urge to be pulled into his orbit.

"I, huh, could teach you. If you want," he offers.

The boy's smile grows wider. But he shakes his head.

"Not now. Later. When it's all over."

And the way he says this, with a confident voice and something like youthful excitement — his eyes fixed on him, always — makes Bodhi wonder. Maybe this is it, he thinks. Maybe this is what he's been missing this whole time, and he needed a tactless kid who's afraid of the water to realize it.

Now, he has a future to hold on to.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Strange as it sounds, Luke takes interest in him. Whenever they bump into each other, he takes him aside and asks him a lot of questions about Scarif, or his life in general. Mostly about Scarif, though. Bodhi thinks it's pretty strange, because Luke achieved much more than that — he's learned since then that the boy blew a kriffing Death Star, for fuck's sake — but he's always listening to him, like, _really_ listening, hanging on his every word.

Bodhi never wants to talk. Doesn't want to relive it — or rather, he wants to tell the story without having to be in it, without having to confess anything. He wants to say, I have nothing to tell you, but this nothing, I'll tell it to you. But he has to speak. He has to wake up everyday, and he has to repeat the story over and over again. If not for him, at least for his friends. He owes it to them. Because if he stays silent, no one will remember their name when he's gone. No one will keep their flame.

In truth, he's almost afraid.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

One day, Luke invites him to his table at lunch. He introduces him to his friends, Han, Wedge, Kes whom he already knows, Shara. Bodhi is a little anxious because he doesn't want to come off as an intruder, but they all welcome him with small nods and include him in their chattering, naturally, as if he had been their friend all along.

"When I have a child," Shara says, mouth full of Fringi spice cake, "I want them to know two things. First, how to fly an X-wing."

"And what's the second thing ?" her husband asks.

She points at Bodhi with the tines of her fork.

"To know everything about Bodhi Rook, the pilot who had the guts to rebel against the Empire !"

"All I ever did was running away," he mumbles sheepishely, ducking his head down to hide his embarrasment.

Luke shoves at his shoulder.

"Sometimes, running away is the bravest thing a man can do."

"I'll never believe it."

"So I'll never stop saying it. _We_ 'll never stop saying it."

And Han ruffles his hair, and Wedge pats his back, and he dares to look up, and they are all looking at him. Smiling.

There are a lot of things he needs to figure out ; his role in the Alliance, another room to stay in — he senses that Kes and Shara _really_ want that baby, a place to mourn his companions, the name of the crustaceans that keep creeping in his clothes, and how to stop the burning in his chest that threatens to explose every once in a while.

It will take time.

But he is ready.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

Another act is done. New personas replace the last ones ; new roles, new scenery, new plot.

Same old curtain.

Same taste of dissatisfaction in different mouths.

But this time, they do not reach for the helm. They aim at tearing it apart, for good.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

It's just a rumour. A story that they spread to inspire children who are used to being told lies in a low voice while their body and soul are hungry for truth and profound intimacy.

The rumour murmurs between the corridors, it slithers beyond the walls of the Rebel Alliance to infiltrate the First Order's. It's about Luke Skywalker, of course. Last jedi, man of pure heart, the one who defeated the Empire and who will soon return. But — and this is the dangerous part, there's also some babble about a small group of rebel soldiers who dared to defy the autocratic government and played a key role in the destruction of the first Death Star. Rogue One : that's what they called themselves. How stupid.

Phasma tries to sweep the issue under the rug — silence it, choke it if she has to. The First Order mostly thrives on the despair of its members, and if people start to feel this — this new hope, there's not much the Order can do. She knows that once a revolution flares up, there is no way to stop it ; it only inflames.

One particular stormtrooper gives her a hard time. He's always dreaming and asking too many questions about this Rogue One for her liking. 

"Who is this noisy kid ?" she asks another captain one day after hearing the stormtrooper pressuring one of his teammates to divulge more on the rebel squad.

The captain, a Barbadelan, doesn't answer immediatly, but Phasma is used to this moment of silence. When she first met him, she thought he was quite obtuse, but she quickly changed her mind : what she had mistaken for lethargy was, in fact, intense reflection. The Barbadelan has been around for a hundred years — saw the rise of the Empire, its fall and rebirth, and his experience has made him one of the wisest persons of her regiment.

"I don't know," the Barbadelan eventually says, "but he is quite agitated. He seems to be fighting a war in his mind. Reminds me of another kid I knew. He too was torn between heart and duty."

"How can you know that ?"

"If you live long enough, you see the same eyes in different people," he explains. There's a gleam in his eye when he adds, "If I were you, I would watch out for him."

And so she does, scanning the matricule FN-2187 that glistens on the back of the stormtrooper's white armour.

 


End file.
